


Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes

by BeautifullyObsessed



Series: Crimes of the Heart [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Cookies, Christmas Eve, Christmas comes to Baker Street, Christmas pageant, Christmas surprises, Christmastime, Deck the Halls, F/M, Homesickness, Humor, Mistletoe, Romance, Sherlock December Ficlets, celebrating with loved ones, christmas day, christmas gifts, gifts of the heart, lessons in holiday spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-23
Packaged: 2019-02-09 09:26:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12884928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed
Summary: Christmas comes to Baker Street, in a form Sherlock Holmes had never envsioned. There is a sweetness in seeing the holiday through someone else's eyes, and there are lessons in holiday spirit and the nature of giving--as well as how Love makes the season even brighter--to be learned. Part of a continuing romantic series, this is the tale of Sherlock & Tessa's first Christmas together. It just proved too irresistable for me not to tell!





	1. A Christmas "thing"

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Happy Christmas, Mr. Holmes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2657378) by [BeautifullyObsessed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed). 



> As always, I owe a huge debt of gratitude to all the Artists & Visionaries who have created the amazing BBC Sherlock. It has completely stolen my attention (sometimes from other more important things!) and inspired me back to creativity after years of dormancy. I do not own any of these characters--well, except for Tessa--and must give all credit for them where due, including to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
> 
> This was one of the first pieces of fanfic I started, around Christmas 2013, before I had fully formed the path of romance Tessa leads Sherlock on. Christmas has always been my favorite time of year, and Dear Reader, I freely admit "Silent Night" always makes me tear up, for a multitude of family reasons, which I know Tessa exactly understands. It just took me many months to finally see what comes after Chapter One, and how the story is resolved and fits into the larger narative. I hope you enjoy and it will leave you with a bit of wistful Christmas merriment!

_(Sunday, early December)_

 

"I’m off then," Tessa was busy buttoning up her coat, as it was an extremely chilly day in London.  Sherlock glanced at her from behind the paper, the brunch she’d prepared for him half-eaten, his coffee growing cool.  He looked at her quizzically "What for?" he asked, surprised to see her bundling up to leave the flat.  He’d thought they had the afternoon ahead of them, perhaps a dvd or two to watch while relaxing quietly, fire in the hearth, her head upon his shoulder, few words spoken but for commentary about the movies, comfortable as any old couple who knew each other’s ins and outs.  With Christmas approaching his caseload had lightened significantly and he counted on Tessa to fill the hours with him, as John was in Northumberland, attending a retirement celebration for another doctor from his unit in Afghanistan, and so was away all weekend long.

"You weren’t listening again," she replied, her tone indicating this was no surprise to her.  "Sherlock, I told you, I have some Christmas shopping to do—some of my favorite people are still on my to-do list, and that,” Tessa’s eyes lit with mirth, “includes  _you_." She was pulling on her gloves, and headed in his direction, presumably for the ritual she could seldom do without—the Goodbye Kiss. She would get no proffered cheek until he’d had his say.

"Well, at any rate, shopping shouldn’t take all afternoon." Sherlock stated this as an established fact," Surely you’ll be back before too long."   Then the afternoon could proceed as he’d expected.

"Well, actually…." Tessa paused, sighed and continued, "I’ve got a thing this afternoon, so I won’t be back till after dark."  

"A ‘thing’?  And just what sort of ‘thing’ do you have?”  She’d piqued his curiosity now and he wouldn’t settle for less than a full explanation.

"A Christmas thing, Sherlock.  A thing at a church."  She was smiling at his growing consternation, at making him ask instead of volunteering the information herself.  She’d learned he listened better when he had to work a bit for it, although the telltale scowl forming on his face warned her not to push the tease too far.  She patiently repeated what she’d told him several days before, "Sylvie and Jasper’s girls are in a Christmas pageant at their church.  They’ve been practicing for weeks, and I promised Syl I wouldn’t miss it."

The sigh he gave was rife with irritation; he closed his eyes a moment and asked, trying his best to minimize any aversion in his voice, “And where exactly is this pageant to take place?”

Tessa narrowed her eyes, shaking her head slightly, “Um….Saint Mary’s of the Angels, on Moorhouse Road in Notting Hill.”  She bit her lip and held her breath a moment before deciding to ask, “Why would you want to know that?” Tessa downplayed the sudden hope that he just might be interested in joining her there.  _That_ was a near impossibility, although she’d be more than happy if he did.

"Because, my dear, perhaps we could meet for dinner afterwards, and it would be best if we met close by, don’t you think?"  Sherlock turned the page of the paper, indicating he thought that the matter was settled. "What time is this performance going to begin?"

"4:00, this afternoon.  I wouldn’t imagine it will run more than an hour or so."  Tessa found she was disappointed; dinner would be fine, but she really would’ve loved to share this little holiday presentation with him—though she’d never dare to ask.

Sherlock took a deep, dramatic breath, as he completed the debate inside his head, yes or no to an idea.  He lowered the paper, giving Tessa his full attention.  ”Only an hour then?”  Tessa nodded yes, and he continued, “You know, I  _could_ join you there.  At the church.  If you’d like me to.” His face was impassive, but for the slight amusement in his eyes.

Although Tessa was speechless in her surprise, Sherlock could see from her face that he’d hit the mark. He usually could read her very well, and it was obvious this time that she wanted very much for him to join her.  He realized she hadn’t invited him, not because she feared him declining, but simply because she knew the idea would be naturally anathema to him.

Recovering from her shock, Tessa felt obligated to caution him. “Sherlock, this is a group of five and six year olds we’re talking about.  Far from disciplined, excited about their play, excited about Christmas.  You do understand what you’d be getting yourself into?”

He suppressed the cringe that would normally have been on his face.  ”Tessa dear,” he said, reminding himself he needn’t sound magnanimous, “let’s just consider it an early Christmas present, shall we?”

Tessa was still skeptical.  ”Um…you should know—from what Sylvie says, there may even be a couple of sheep.”  She waited for a response and when he remained silent, she added with great emphasis, “ _Live sheep_ , Sherlock. Are you sure about this?”

He nodded, certain he’d followed the right course. “Never surer.  I will be there, count on it.”  

The smile she gave him was surely worth all the irritation and boredom he expected to experience in the church.  He started to lift the paper up to read, when she knelt beside him, hugged him tightly, and nuzzled his neck sweetly.  ”Sherlock,” she said into his collar, “sometimes you can be such a dear.” She moved back a little, just to see his face; saying in complete sincerity, “What have I done to deserve you?”

He answered her most dryly, giving her the half smile he knew she adored, “You must’ve been a very good girl as a child.”

Tessa’s only answer was a loving smile and a lingering kiss.  She rose to leave without another word, but as she reached the door, Sherlock called to her, “If you’re thinking of getting me new gloves, the only ones worth investing in can be found at Harvey Nichols.”  He lowered the paper, wanting to stress the importance of the details he was about to impart, “Cashmere lined, with five-finger,  _precise_  touch technology.”  He started to return to his page, but then flicked it down a moment, adding “I’d prefer them in black, of course.”

Tessa tilted her head, acknowledging his request as one would acknowledge the victor in a well fought contest. “Of course,” she replied with a smile, before turning to leave.  She hoped the other item she had in mind would come as a  _complete_  surprise, for he had so few of those in his life and she knew he enjoyed them when they came.

* * *

 

Tessa reached the church nearly a half-hour early, having dropped her Christmas packages off at her flat beforehand.  She didn’t mind arriving early; as she headed to a pew off to the side, she saw the children were just finishing up with a final rehearsal of their pageant.  She smiled at their obvious excitement—in a space designed to echo with prayer and song, there was their happy laughter ringing out (along with the attendant shushing of the adults around them).  She hadn’t told Sherlock, but her family parish at home had a similar tradition, celebrated for almost fifty years. She had even played the Christmas Star when she was five, and it was one of her earliest, dearest Christmas memories.

Truth be told, it wasn’t just her promise to Sylvie that brought her here—it was a deep longing for a connection to her family so very far away, at this family-centric time of year.

* * *

 

Tessa had left her phone on vibrate, in case Sherlock should text her to beg off coming to the church.  At 3:55 she felt it go off, and was fairly certain it was him, perhaps with a brief apology or explanation for why he wouldn’t attend.  She didn’t expect him to carry through, and wouldn’t blame him in the least if he didn’t; she understood him enough to realize how uncharacteristic it would be for him to appear at such a function.

She pulled her phone from her coat pocket and clicked on his text.  _”I’m in the church vestibule.  Where are you?”_  Her eyes widened in surprise, her delight clear to anyone who cared to look her way.  She quickly texted back,  _"3rd row, far left hand row of pews."_  Tessa turned to watch the doors at the back of the church, and within moments she saw him, his classic greatcoat swirling behind him at his rapid stride, collar upturned against the cold (and in his usual nod to vanity, she knew).  Sherlock’s face was set in her direction, looking crisp from the cold, his curls gently tousled so that she just wanted to reach out and tame them a bit.  He slipped into the pew beside her.

Tessa couldn’t help herself; she stood on her toes to kiss his cheek.  Her lips were warm against his chill, and she whispered in his ear in amazement, “You’re really here.”  Sherlock, looking down at her, answered in a tone clearly saying there was never any doubt, “Of course.  Did you really expect any less?”

Tessa looked down herself, demure in the moment, “Well…I wouldn’t have held you to it.  But now you’re here, I’m very glad.”  She twined her arm around his, facing forward, saying, “I just hope you won’t regret it.”

Sherlock teased her gently, his voice a soft, deep rumble for her ears alone, “With you by my side, how could I?”  He glanced forward at the activity around the altar and the final preparations.  The quiet of the church was broken by a growing hubbub of murmurs as those in attendance waited to see their own come down the center aisle and begin the pageant.  Tessa had leaned her head against his shoulder for the moment, and as always he found it made him happy to have her assume such a feminine pose.

A teenaged girl stepped up to the podium to the left of the altar, and gave a brief welcome to the crowd, and then began to narrate the tale the children would be enacting.  There was a choir of tweens in the loft, who, with each section of the play, would sing a carol fit for the story.  The younger children reacted in a variety of ways to performing; some embraced it with seriousness and all due attention; some allowed themselves to be led to the altar, looking frightened and unsure, their teachers coaxing them along; some were easily distracted, waving at their families in the pews, or turning back to watch the choir, or focusing on the sheep (the ones led in by a couple of older boys playing shepherds, as Tessa had predicted).  The little girl playing Mary looked angelic, though her nerves got the best of her and she planted her thumb firmly in her mouth the moment she reached the altar. There was a bevy of angels in white and gold and silver, wings of feather or foil or painted cardboard, depending on the ingenuity of the parent making the costume.  One carried a large gold plywood star, and went to stand on a step stool behind the Holy Family, so that the Three Kings could find their way.  

The wise men presented their gifts, and the teachers then moved forward to lead the children in singing “ _Away in a Manager_ ”, which they mimed—again with varying degrees of success—using simple motions that fit the gentle lullaby.  At the conclusion, the audience broke into appreciative applause.

Sherlock had not made the performance his only focus.  Throughout the little play, he glanced sideways at Tessa, enjoying her response to the music and the pageant, her hand resting comfortably in his, lying soft against her thigh.  She had sung along with every carol the choir had performed, her voice rising clear and bright on the  _Glorias_  of “ _Angels We Have Heard on_   _High_ ”, singing it out with all her heart.  He knew it was his feelings for her that colored his reaction, but still he thought it was the sweetest he’d ever heard them sung. And he surprised Tessa when he joined in himself, on “ _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_ ” and “ _Joy to the World_ ”.  She slipped her hand in the crook of his arm again, squeezing it tightly and smiling up at him, as he showed a velvet baritone she hadn’t expected.  He would tell her later that he’d served his fair share (as had Mycroft) in church choir at his parents’ behest, until his voice changed and proved for several years to be ungovernable.  Oh, but she enjoyed the surprise of it in the soft light of the church.

The pageant complete, the lights of the church were unexpectedly dimmed, and the crowd was hushed in anticipation of the finale—the lighting of the towering Christmas tree to the right of the pulpit.  As the bright white lights on the tree came on, the crowd “ooohhhed” with satisfaction.  The choir began to sing “ _Silent Night_ ” with almost all present joining in.  Sherlock heard Tessa sing along with the first few words, and then she fell silent.  He turned to look at her; her head was bowed, her lips were trembling, her breath hitched at times.  It was clear she was doing her utmost to fight back tears—and despite her best efforts, she appeared to be losing.  She took her hand from his arm to reach into her bag and get a tissue, dabbing at her eyes, still with her head bowed.

The choir sang all three verses of the carol, and the music died away.  The lights in the church came back up, and the narrator then invited all in attendance to the basement for Christmas refreshments.  Parents, children, families, began to move from the pews back to the vestibule where the stairs were located.  Tessa remained still, not yet looking up.  She shook her head and took a deep breath, remaining seated, still without a word.  Sherlock sat beside her, not asking yet, simply waiting.

When she appeared to have recovered her composure, she finally looked at him.  Her lashes were still wet from crying, but she was gamely trying to smile.  This time he had to ask, gently, solicitously, “Tessa, why the tears?”

The small smile that dimpled her cheeks was pure but bittersweet, "Oh, you know me.  What day could pass without at least a few melodramatic tears?”   But she could see that answer wouldn’t satisfy his disquiet on her behalf, and so went on, "Really—it’s the music.  It never fails to move me.  I think it sounds…" she looked down again, perhaps afraid emotion might overwhelm her if she kept looking at the puzzled concern upon his face, “I think it’s the most beautiful of all the carols.  Simple but pure, you know?"  Sherlock nodded, not in agreement, but to encourage her to continue.  "I’ve always thought it was inspired by Heaven.  I’ve always thought it sounded like coming home at long last, after years of being lonely and far from those who love us."  Tessa turned back to him, her eyes bright with emotion, "It’s just…this time of year…I get a little homesick. For my family…well, what’s left of us.  And our traditions.”  Tessa took a deep, bracing breath, more in control of the sentiment that had overwhelmed her earlier, “It’s different for me here, and somehow it sort of aches.  You know what I mean?”

Sherlock had his own aches aplenty, but for most of his adulthood he had successfully kept them to himself.  Seeing Tessa so vulnerable—and so pretty in her unvarnished emotion—made him feel protective, almost possessive in an archaic kind of way; made him want to be the one to whom she turned.  After all these months he was still surprised that she could evoke such feelings in him.  The simple, very human, nature of this—which he’d so long prided himself on rising above—turned out to be pleasant and fulfilling after all. He supposed the greatest love stories had that at their core—the feminine cleaving to the masculine as Nature intended all along. What she’d given him from their beginning was unconditional acceptance and understanding; it stood to reason that he would fiercely want to provide for her happiness.  As he felt at this exact moment.  

Without a word, Sherlock folded her gently in his arms and pressed his lips against her hair, making Tessa relax easily into him. Holding her so, in the now quiet church, he noticed how the small white lights on the Christmas tree strikingly brightened the white and gold decorations gracing the branches—stirring him to reflect on how they were so very like the illumination Tessa had brought into his life.  Seeing things through her eyes had opened up parts of the world he’d never taken time to notice before, and it came to him that she was doing the same now, showing him Christmas from a soft and sentimental point of view that had long since vanished from his lexicon, as far back as his discovery that Father Christmas wasn’t real after all.  What sort of gift, he wondered, could he give her in return, and how might he temper with some Christmas joy, her homesickness for her family so far away?

“We’ll dine in tonight,” he told her softly, knowing her well enough that she’d likely want to spend the evening quietly and as close to him as possible.  She nodded her grateful assent and they started down the aisle to the back of the church.  As they left, his arm wrapped protectively around her waist, Sherlock felt the beginnings of a plan start to form.  It would require time, it would require effort, but if anyone could do the task, he knew that it was him.  There might even be some favors he’d need to call in, but he had a wealth of those saved up, and Tessa was certainly worth whatever cost might come to bear.

_(to be continued)_

 


	2. Deck the Halls

_(the following Saturday)_

Passing through the door of 221 Baker Street, Sherlock didn’t need employ his commanding powers of deduction to determine that Mrs. Hudson had started her holiday baking.  The air was redolent of sugar and spice, vanilla and cocoa and cinnamon, and his mouth began to water in anticipation of the sweet treats in store.  Earlier than usual, he realized, wondering what had prompted the change in her accustomed pattern—normally, her culinary frenzy was reserved for the last week leading up to Christmas.  No matter, though; it would be just as much a pleasure to enjoy her cookies, cakes and tarts now, as on Christmas Eve.

He’d left the flat early that morning, on pretext of investigating a lead on a case, waving off John’s offer of help in the matter, and taking time only to down a quick cup of coffee and a day-old Chelsea bun before embarking.  There  _had_  been a lead of sorts to follow, though not the kind John would have expected, and Sherlock had very satisfactorily concluded that part of the business at hand. It would still be a couple of weeks until the outcome of his efforts reached fruition.

He’d been about to climb the stairs, when the door to Mrs. Hudson’s flat swung open, allowing the aromas of good baking to flood the little anteroom that sat outside 221A proper, to reveal Tessa clad in a flour-dusted apron, oven mitts on hands, and holding a baking sheet covered in fresh gingerbread men.  Sherlock couldn’t decide in the moment which was more irresistible—his perennial favorite, gingerbread, or the sight of his Tessa fully attired in the trappings of domesticity.  Fortunately she didn’t make him choose.  “Darling,” she exclaimed, beaming with delight, “your timing couldn’t be better!”  She quickly crossed to his side, stood on tip toes, and kissed his cheek.  “Cookie?” she asked, surely already knowing he couldn’t say no.

“This is my last batch for now,” she told him. “Just let me set these on the rack to cool, and I’ll join you upstairs.  Sherlock nodded, nibbling on his gingerbread, before proceeding up the stairs.

Reaching the lower landing, he heard the strains of Christmas carols coming from the front room of the flat, giving him pause before he climbed the rest of the way.  That had to be Tessa’s doing as well, he deduced, for John knew how he felt about giving in to such trite holiday conventions.  Sherlock decided not to fault her in this, but at some point he knew he would have to make his strong opinion known regarding the saccharine rituals of Christmas—and knowing her penchant for the sentimental, sooner than later would be called for, as she was likely to get as carried away with them, as he was to detest them.

Ah, but it turned out he was already too late with that resolution.  Standing at the threshold of the front room, he saw that Christmas had exploded in his absence.  Sherlock sighed deeply, rolling his eyes, knowing there would be no putting this unwanted present back into its packaging.  Tessa came up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, hugging him tightly.  “John thinks you will find it a terrible bore,” her tone indicating that she expected better of Sherlock, and would settle for no less, “but I insisted we absolutely had to wait for you before we decorated the tree.”  She gently prompted him forward, and before he could protest, she was sliding his coat off, to hang it on its accustomed hook on the back of the door.  Sherlock remained still, gaping at the profusion of red, green, and gold that dominated his view, trying his best not to sneer too loudly.  The battle is surely lost, he thought; Tessa is enjoying this far too thoroughly. 

Mrs. Hudson was sitting on the sofa, sorting through a box of ancient looking ornaments, dusting them lightly before laying them upon the coffee table, with frequent pauses to drink what appeared to be steaming, mulled cider.  Surely spiked, and certainly leaving her with a very rosy disposition, he concluded.  He looked over a John, who stood beside the fresh Douglas fir standing to the left of their hearth; the doctor turned from stringing lights upon the boughs to grin at Sherlock in clear recognition—and hilarity—over what he knew Sherlock had to be thinking.  John lifted his own mug of cider in an ironic toast, “Cheers, Sherlock!”  John’s amusement over his friend’s inconvenience was unmistakable, “You’re just in time; now the party can really get started.” 

In addition to the tree, there were strings of colored lights hanging around the window frames, with garlands of evergreens and strands of holly strategically placed.  Most people would find the decorations a modest nod to the season, but Sherlock found them too excessive for his tastes.  He realized John was taking full advantage of the opportunity Tessa presented—for in past Christmases, Sherlock had allowed very little in the way of holiday decorations in their flat, forbidding any sort of tree as a waste of time and space, and reserving the playing of Christmas music to the eve and day alone. 

Tessa was quick to bring him a hot mug of cider, taking his hand to pull him further into the room.  “We wanted to surprise you,” she told him guilessly, “we’ve been planning this all week.”  Her eyes shone so brightly, so happily, that Sherlock swallowed back the sarcasm that normally would have dripped in his response, “And surprised me you have.”  He took a bracing swallow of his cider. 

Now that he thought about it, he’d caught John and Tessa several times over the previous days, heads close together, sometimes laughing lightly, and swift to move apart when they caught him watching them.  He had actually assumed they were discussing the topic of Christmas presents—presents for him specifically—over which he would have no objections in the least.  Blinded by his ever-so-slight weakness in the face of the bounties of Christmas, he’d left himself wide open for their cunning ploy.

Sherlock approached the tree in silence, knowing the three waited upon his reaction before continuing their jovial proceedings.  “As trees go, I suppose it will do,” he sniffed, “but I expect you will keep it well hydrated, John.  We’ll not have needles scattered about the flat well into spring.”

“As opposed to finding fresh body parts in the fridge or microwave?”  John chuckled.

“Those items serve a useful purpose, John.”  Sherlock’s tone was light enough to make clear he had accepted the inevitability of the tree, “I see no practical reason for this silly spectacle.”

Mrs. Hudson broke her silence, tsking at them “Come on now, boys.  Play nice.”  She rose and crossed her way to the kitchen to refill her cup.  “It’s about time we had a proper tree up here.”

Tessa was at his side again, eager to sooth any ruffled feathers.  “It’s not entirely Christmas without one.”  She was pouting slightly in her usual way, for she knew it was often enough the thing required to finally win him around.  Sherlock could only give her his resigned smile, knowing for certain that she’d likely find a pleasant way to show her gratitude later on.  Her suit fully won, she circled his neck with her arms, kissing him squarely on the mouth, and then taking a moment to brush his lower lip with her thumb to wipe away the stain of her lipstick.  Tessa’s voice was low enough for his ears alone, “I swear you won’t regret this, my darling.  We’ll make it a Christmas to remember.”  Her eyes, lingering on his, gave him the sweetest of promises, before she joined Mrs. Hudson in the kitchen.

At this point Sherlock noticed—to his minor chagrin—that several pieces of his equipment, normally stored upon the kitchen table, had been shunted aside, in favor of several types of biscuits cooling on trays and racks.  The two women were gathering up the confections into plastic containers, talking quietly as they did so.  Apparently Tessa had commandeered both downstairs  _and_  upstairs kitchens for a serious baking project; there looked to be a good ten dozen cookies in a variety of flavors.  Additionally, he observed a large pan filled with what appeared to be chocolate fudge laced with bits of candy cane, and a smaller pan that looked to contain some sort of salted variety of fudge.

Sherlock found it a little disconcerting—his kitchen so completely out of its usual order--for when he’d left that morning, Tessa had been snugged down under the covers, with no indication of a diabolical Christmas plan on her itinerary for the day.  She’d tricked him right well, and now he wondered what other holiday themed surprises he might expect.  It was enough to make him start to rue the season.

The women worked together smoothly, gathering up the empty racks and pans into a pile for washing later, and stacking the sealed containers neatly upon the table.  Tessa had set aside a small portion of each type of cookie and treat on a platter, which Sherlock assumed meant they were available for immediate consumption.  In fact, Tessa had picked up a piece of the salted fudge, and headed his way.  “Taste this please, Sherlock, and tell me what you think.”  She held it up to his mouth so he could take a bite.

It was actually quite good; salted chocolate-caramel, incorporating two of his favorite flavors of sweets.  He took the rest of her proffered piece in hand to finish it.  “Very good,” he told her, “your own recipe?”

Tessa blushed slightly, looking delighted with his response, “Well yes; I tinkered a bit until I found the right ingredients and measurements.”  Her eyes grew even merrier as she told him, “I made it special just for you.”

Damn it, he thought, she’s just going to steamroll me with this Christmas business; yet her manner in it remained so charming, he knew to offer any objections now would be simply heartless.  Caught, he was, in her delicious Christmas cul-de-sac; he supposed he might as well accept it now and settle in for whatever further surprises she had in store.  The corners of his mouth lifted in a small, secret smile, knowing that the holiday surprises  _he_  had in store for Tessa would far surpass any she might have imagined for him.

* * *

 

Sherlock was to discover that the huge baking Tessa had undertaken was for gift-giving, a tradition handed down for several generations on her mother’s side.  “It’s the first Christmas that I’ve been on my own that I’ve been able to do this,” she’d told him, as she continued to tidy up the kitchen after lunch, “The oven in my flat is fussy and far too small for a project like this, and I really never had the luxury of time to do it anyway.”  In the end, she had made sure all his apparatus found their way back to their homes, so he was left without a need to complain.  And she’d ensured there was plenty of treats for him and John to enjoy, with the promise of more to come if they were greedy enough to finish them off too quickly.  Tessa had even left Mrs. Hudson with a basket full of goodies, insisting she take them despite her objection that Tessa needn’t do so. 

As for decorating the tree, Sherlock had steadfastly abstained for as long as he could, John good-naturedly needling him from time to time throughout the afternoon a counterpoint to Tessa’s subtle attempts to get him involved.  Wiley as her efforts were, Sherlock quickly saw right through them, but as always found them dear, for he knew they were born of her love for him.  He had sat down at his computer, meaning to do anything,  _anything_ , but what was clearly their priority for the day, meaning to tolerate the process with as much grace as he could muster.  Tessa speedily adopted a new tactic, making a casual display of such poor choices in fitting out the branches that his sense of the aesthetic would be offended enough to need to correct her.

Glancing up from the screen at her attempts, Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disapproval, but said nothing.  Instead, he fetched a dramatic sigh, closing his laptop, and then grumbled about how anyone expected him to work with such ridiculous goings on around him.  Tessa had looked immediately hopeful as he rose, thinking she had finally won him over, but he pointedly selected a random book from the case in the corner opposite the tree, taking his place on the sofa to at least pretend to read it.

Tessa had then redoubled her efforts, now asking him every other minute or so what he thought about a particular ornament, or did he think the tree was looking a little lopsided.  John had retired to the kitchen to refill his cider and grab a few of the fresh baked cookies, observing them with a very wry expression on his face, as he waited for Sherlock to either explode in irritation, or simply give in to Tessa’s dogged determination. Mrs. Hudson was busy trying to sort out the best location for the placement of the mistletoe.

Sherlock, of course, was not taking in a word of the book in his hands (a treatise on fungi and their medicinal uses versus dangers) as he waited for Tessa to admit defeat.  She eventually came to sit—wide-eyed as a pleading doe--at his side, silent until he turned his full attention to her.  “Please?” she asked simply, and in the end Sherlock had conceded.  Perhaps it was the healthy dose of rum contained in the cider; perhaps it was the way that Tessa, John, and Mrs. Hudson had joined in merrily with the carols playing; or perhaps it was the very holiday cheer that Tessa seemed to embody, but in the end he found he was more than happy as he helped her deck the tree, setting right her purposeful blunders and, at the last, placing the star atop just as she requested he do.

Mrs. Hudson had long since gone downstairs; John was out on a date (with high expectations of success on the field of amore); and Tessa was leaning upon Sherlock in the warm silence, the room lit only by the fire in the hearth and the glow of Christmas lights.  Their conversation had come around to family traditions, highlighting the wealth of differences between their upbringings, and when Sherlock asked her about her happiest Christmas memories, she had many she was glad to share with him.  It was a marvel for him to think of her as a girl, of her as a teen on the cusp of womanhood, cradled in the loving environment she described.  It was no wonder she adored the season as she did, and he realized that if her intent was to open his eyes to its simple, familial pleasures, she was decidedly succeeding. 

“But you know, darling,” her voice soft and satisfied, “you’ve given me one of my brightest memories.”

This surprised him, and so he had to ask, “Really?  How so?”

Tessa laid her hand on his shirt, absentmindedly fingering the buttons, as she found the best way to explain, “That day in the church.  I never expected that from you.  I know now that I should have.”

“What?” he replied, “That I actually showed up?”

She shook her head, softly against his shoulder, “No.  That you understood how I was feeling.  And that you wanted to make it right for me.” 

He was looking at the star atop the tree, remembering what he’d been feeling as she’d cried those sentimental tears.  Protective and irresistibly caught in her softness, and knowing in his soul that no matter how messy her emotions were at times, he’d never want her any other way.  “My dear, what I wanted in that moment I couldn’t say aloud in a church, for the sake of propriety.”  Tessa gasped against his shoulder, surprised; yet he knew she hung upon what he might say next.  “What I wanted was to bundle you up and take you back home and make love to you all night long.”  Sherlock paused, feeling the truth of his words as a warmth in his chest, “Until you cried out my name again and again, and the only tears you might shed would be happy ones.”

Without a word, without a bit of hesitation, Tessa was kissing him then, in ways that never would have suited those moments in the church, with her hands is hair, and barely stopping even a moment for breath.  Finally breaking the kiss, she leaned her forehead against his, whispering, “Oh Sherlock, my Sherlock, my darling, wonderful Sherlock.  It’s so cold outside right now,” she lingered deliciously before finishing, “and I  _need_  you to bundle me  _well_.”

Of all the things she had asked of him that day, that request turned out to be the easiest one for him to fill.  And he would tell her later that she had easily given him  _his_  favorite Christmas memory.

_(to be continued)_

 


	3. The Gift of Giving

Eight days until Christmas, and all of Sherlock’s plans had fallen into place precisely as he had ordained.  Tomorrow would bring a rush of activity as the first of his gifts for Tessa arrived—quite literally—demanding his attention throughout the day, if the surprise he intended for her was to succeed.  Accordingly, he had finally confided in John what he had arranged for, a few days earlier.  John had readily agreed to provide the crucial assistance Sherlock needed, and both men knew well the timing required to carry it all off.  Best of all, Tessa had no inkling as to the wonder awaiting her.    

That evening in Saint Mary of the Angels had remained fixed in Sherlock’s mind for several days afterwards, as he tried to puzzle out the best way to give Tessa the Christmas comfort of the family she was missing so.  He precluded arranging for a visit home for her, almost immediately, knowing she was committed to her current production well past the holidays, and that the theatre would be dark only after the Christmas Eve matinee, resuming its regular run on Boxing Day.  But if she were to have free time enough to visit her family in America, he would have been hard pressed to see her go--for to his great astonishment, he was enjoying the season in a way he had never imagined he ever would, experiencing it anew in the happy reflection of her eyes, and in her gentle love of the goodness and charity which she maintained the holiday generally engendered in people; in truth, she had become for him the quintessence of Dickens’ Ghost of Christmas Present.  For every example he might cite regarding the rapaciousness of greedy shoppers (and the merchants who preyed upon this fault in human nature), she would consistently give him two or three examples that countermanded his belief that Christmas in the 21st century was merely an excuse for covetous excess.  Sherlock realized he should have expected no less—for had he not come to love her for the same optimism, kindheartedness, and tender expectations that she had shown him from their very start?

And so he had proceeded, peppering their conversations over the next week or so, with questions about her family and their holiday traditions, leading her to believe that his curiosity was rooted in how far different his youth had been from hers.  What information he couldn’t glean directly, he simply did a little research to find, Facebook and other social networking sites being the easiest source to turn to.  From there, he’d contacted some of her closest family members via email, introducing himself as her very good friend and asking for their help in providing a Christmas surprise that Tessa would never dream was coming her way.  In short order, he had the arrangements squared away, and looked forward with great anticipation to her reaction when the unexpected gift would be revealed.

* * *

Thursday morning dawned bright and cold, but fortunately no precipitation was expected, meaning the schedule Sherlock and John were to follow that day would not be interrupted with inconvenient weather.  Sherlock let Tessa believe he was busy with casework most of the day, disappointing her hopes of seeing him before her evening performance; but in exchange he told her he would be in the audience that evening.  He knew that was bound to give her a little extra incentive to excel, for she had told him more than once his attendance at her plays made her a little more nervous, but in a good way, heightening her desire above all else to make him proud of her. 

The curtain rose at 7:30, and Tessa was indeed in top form, delivering another rousing rendition of  _The Miller’s Son_  towards the end of Act II.  During the curtain call, Sherlock wondered if she felt the extra enthusiasm in the applause, and if she could hear the very American sounding hoots and cheers that were coming from the section in which he was seated.  If she had, he was certain she wouldn’t think it any more than visiting tourists praising one of their own.

He allowed the usual time for her to go through her post-performance rituals, eventually texting to ask if he might come back to the dressing room to see her (a departure from their regular routine) as he might need to dash off at DI Lestrade’s request to join him at a crime scene.  Tessa told him she’d let the Stage Manager know (unaware he was already in on the surprise) but that she hoped Sherlock would find time afterwards to stop by her flat, no matter the hour.   _That_  was a detail he smiled over, but kept quietly to himself.

The Stage Manager ushered Sherlock and his party to the large common dressing rooms, indicating where they would find Tessa by knocking on the door and calling out for her.  Sherlock nodded to the man in thanks, and then turned to await her appearance, keeping his face impassive in the final moments before his well-planned surprise would break.  Those with him were hushed in happy anticipation, even the youngest silent in her excitement at her mother’s urging.

Tessa opened the door and reached her arms out to embrace him, asking lightheartedly, “Darling, do you really have to run off so…”  Her mouth dropped wide in wonder as she took in the little group standing behind Sherlock.  “Ohmygosh,” she whispered, shocked and pleased all together, “Oh my gosh, how…when…” and then she rushed forward into the arms of her waiting family.  Sherlock stood aside as they greeted one another, all speaking at once, excited and happy and tearful in some cases, all of them wanting to hug her at once, until it became one big hug, all huddled together and not wanting to let go.  Though he stood apart from them, the warmth of the moment was not lost upon Sherlock, and he felt a wonderful, deep sense of satisfaction at seeing how happy they  _all_  were, not the least of which was his beloved Tessa. 

As if sensing his thoughts, she turned his way, her tears clearly exultant, and moved to pull him closer, until he was wrapped in their midst.  Hugging him tightly, she murmured against his ear, “Sherlock, you are the best man in the entire world, and I’ll love you forever for this.”  Tessa pressed her lips against his cheek, before turning back to her family; she took his hand, steadfastly keeping hold, as the rush of conversation with her family members continued.

Sherlock allowed them several more minutes before speaking up, to gently move the evening along, “Tessa, we’ve got reservations for a late supper, and a car is waiting for us outside.”  She nodded in understanding, and the couple moved towards the exit, followed by her two sisters, brother and niece.

* * *

 

They’d closed the restaurant down, which was no surprise as Tessa’s family was still operating on Eastern Standard Time.  The meal had been animated, with lots of overlapping conversation and much laughter and reminiscing.  Tessa had been thrilled her brother and sisters had finally gotten a chance to see her work, and they complimented her vigorously on what she had achieved, going on to fill her in on all the many details of their lives and careers and college life (in the her youngest sister’s case), returning often to discuss the sweet memories of the Christmases their parents had created for them.

Tessa had given Sherlock place of honor on one side, despite the fact he told her she should have one of her sisters beside her.  On her other side sat her seven year old niece, Jane, who was very excited to be on the whirlwind adventure, with lots and lots of questions for her aunt about Christmas traditions in this new place, and does Santa visit the children in London too, and what did she like best about living here.  Tessa answered her questions with humor and patience, to the wide-eyed girl’s satisfaction, so that Jane decided she wouldn’t mind so much to spend Christmas here so long as Father Christmas (as Auntie Tessa had explained he was called in Britain) would find her here.  Tessa laughed softly, “Oh, you’ll be home in time for Santa to leave your presents there,” and had then leaned in close to the child, telling her in a stage whisper loud enough for all to hear, “And the thing I love best about living here is this wonderful gentleman beside me.”

Jane moved forward to see past Tessa, “Is my auntie your favorite part of living here, too?” she inquired, fixing Sherlock in her sights with the candid scrutiny of a child. 

His honest smile was taken by all at the table as answer enough, but for Jane and Tessa’s sakes, he replied, “My most favorite thing ever.”  The girl nodded, pleased with his response, then reached to whisper in her aunt’s ear, so softly that none but Tessa could make her out.  Tessa kissed her niece’s cheek, telling her back, “I think so too, Jane.  I really, really do.”

Sherlock had made arrangements for rooms at a hotel in the heart of London, figuring that during their brief visit, Tessa would likely want to show them around the city.  They dropped her family there, saying goodnight with promises for great doings on the morrow, before heading home to Baker Street.  In the quiet of the cab, Tessa asked for details on how he had arranged for her siblings to visit.  Sherlock answered her modestly, telling her how the idea had come to him, and how John--and even Mycroft--had helped to pull it off.  That her family had been only too happy to take up his offer, willing to rearrange their schedules to make the trip a reality, and that the only reason her oldest brother didn’t join them was, of course, the imminent arrival of his third child. 

Tessa had been concerned about the cost of the trip, as her younger sister, Mary Elizabeth, had told her that they’d been delightfully surprised when Sherlock had arranged everything for them, and not asked for anything to defray the cost.  He responded simply that he had called in a couple of favors so that the cost was nominal, and that—at Sherlock’s request—Mycroft had used his influence to see her family had been bumped up to first class for the flight.  “He  _is_  practically the British government, after all,” he confided to her, “and I’d have been foolish not to take advantage.”  In all their discussion, Sherlock was ever anxious to deflect any notion that he’d acted above and beyond what any man would do for the woman he loved, but Tessa’s heart knew better.

“You may fool most of the world, Sherlock Holmes,” Tessa told him later, reaching to turn off the bedside lamp, as they retired for the evening, “but I see the best of you, and you’re just as susceptible to the sentiment of Christmas as anybody of tender heart.”

He made a quiet, scoffing sound, but that did not deter her.  “Bringing my family here isn’t even the best of the gift you’ve given me.  As far as I’m concerned,” she kissed his cheek, before laying her head against his shoulder, “ _you_  embracing the selfless spirit of Christmas is the greatest gift I could ever ask for.”

In the darkness, as she fell to sleep beside him, Sherlock reckoned the finest gift  _she_  had given  _him_  was that very lesson—and the satisfaction—of allowing himself do just that. 

_(to be continued)_


	4. "On the first day of Christmas, my True Love gave to me..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An extra long chapter of what I hope you will find to be idyllic, Christmasy goodness. Happy Christmas, Kind Reader--and thank you for reading!

This was, beyond question, Tessa’s happiest Christmas season since the halcyon days of her childhood, each frosty December morning presenting her with another chance to share all that she loved about the holidays with those she held most dear--the dearest of whom was easy, for anyone who truly knew her, to reckon.   It had taken quiet, perpetual patience, but Tessa had never doubted that she would eventually succeed in winning Sherlock over to a softer, gentler attitude towards Christmas and all that it encompassed. 

Going into the holiday season, Tessa started with the hope of guiding Sherlock towards humoring her sentimental nature and tolerating her genuine devotion to the spirit of Christmas.  She had proceeded cautiously, looking for any sign that she was overdoing things enough to truly irritate him, wagering that an understated approach might be a sly enough route to ease him into a proper, festive frame of mind.  And it had worked marvelously.  She hadn’t even envisioned him warming to the point where he’d been willing to attend that Christmas pageant, and yet he had volunteered, attended, and not complained in the least—so that each day now she felt confident enough to take a baby step or two forward insinuating Christmas into life on Baker Street.  To her wonder and joy, Sherlock had offered minimal resistance after a time—so that she couldn’t be more excited about the prospects for the days to come.

If asked, Sherlock would have told her that it wasn’t so much the purposeful little things she’d been doing that had opened his heart to the Christmas season, but the many things she did simply by virtue of her nature, that had made it impossible for him to resist her sweet and sincere Yuletide enthusiasm.  But that was the way it had been from their first meetings in the Spring; Tessa had taken him by surprise a little at a time, until the thought of a day without her in his life was one he refused to entertain.

As for the gifts, well, Tess had been thinking of that as far back as late October, desiring to find something so uniquely suited to him that he would simply  _have_  to love it.  Sherlock was the sort of man who went out and got exactly what he needed when he needed it, without any fuss and generally without concern for cost--so she’d have to find something he’d never think of for himself.  Added to that the complication of aspiring to actually surprise him, and it became a major challenge.

After studied consideration, Tessa had a plan in mind by mid-November, and went about her business quietly, so all would be achieved with plenty of time left to enjoy the weeks before Christmas free of that sort of stress.  She was careful to keep a poker face when any discussion of gift-giving arose, for she knew how well Sherlock could read her; in this, at least, her training yielded benefit.  She wished, in fact, to surprise him just as thoroughly and happily as he had surprised her.

The arrival of her family might have set her plans awry if she hadn’t already wrapped up all the details.  Tessa thanked her lucky stars more than once during their visit, that she had the foresight to plan Sherlock’s gifts well in advance.

* * *

It was a tearful farewell at Heathrow, but not a sad one, for their time together had been well spent; Tessa having tailored their sightseeing to what she knew would delight them best.  As thrilled as she was to have them in London during the holidays, Tessa knew they were also anxious to return home to their own Christmas celebrations—and she’d been missing Sherlock, in those times he hadn’t joined them in their excursions throughout the city.  Tessa liked to think he was missing her as well.

And so the final countdown to Christmas began; meetings with friends, drinks with cast mates, and parties enough to fill her free time.  Even so, she made sure to visit Baker Street at least once a day—and with each visit, would bring a gift or two to leave beneath the tree, never saying a word.  Her gifts for John and Mrs. Hudson were wrapped straightforward as any Christmas offering; but those for Sherlock she had to disguise in whatever ingenious way she could manage, knowing he’d try to decipher the contents the moment her back was turned.  It didn’t occur to Tessa that he might choose to open them in her absence, and then rewrap them—not being privy to the knowledge that he’d done just that as an adolescent, she trusted him entirely.  Fortunately, Sherlock behaved, for he could see how much the giving meant to her.    

Christmas Eve arrived, with all in high expectation.  Tessa and Mrs. Hudson had laid in well the supplies for Christmas brunch and Christmas dinner.  The few days before were spent in the close quarters of Mrs. Hudson’s kitchen, finalizing plans, polishing the silver, and readying any item that could be prepared in advance.  If either of “the Boys” wandered in—be it out of curiosity, or drawn there by the scent of something yummy—the women firmly shushed them away (although in Sherlock’s case, he more than once attempted to charm his way past Tessa, just to prove to John he could pass where his friend had so blatantly failed). Both meals were to be a mix of classic British Christmas fare and samplings of Tessa’s family favorites. 

Tessa had left for the theatre around noon, promising to return as soon as the matinee of  _A Little_   _Night_   _Music_  concluded, and John and Mrs. Hudson had ventured out to pick up a few last minute Christmas presents, leaving Sherlock at odds and ends for a few hours.  He filled the time with wrapping the last of his gifts, enjoying the challenge of customizing the paper and trimming to the recipient and the particular item.  It fended off the boredom, anyway.

Tessa returned shortly before five, breathless from the rush, her cheeks quite rosy from the cold, the light snow that dusted her coat evaporating in moments.  Anticipating her return, Sherlock had set the kettle to boil, betting she’d like some hot chocolate to warm up with.  Shrugging off her coat, she draped it across the chair near the sofa, and then took the mug from him, pleased with his thoughtfulness.

“It was a full house this afternoon,” she told him between sips, “SRO, in fact.  And we got a standing O.”

He nodded motioning for her to join him on the sofa, “How’s your appetite?” he asked, “It’s still a little early for supper, but I thought perhaps we could get something now.”

“Oh, I’d love that, but I can’t right now, darling,” she told him, sitting down beside him and resting her mug on the coffee table, “I can’t stay long, but we had a table of treats at the theatre, so I grabbed something there to hold me over until supper”

“What, you’re going out _again?”_ Sherlock didn’t intend to sound so irritated, but his expression left no doubt in Tessa’s mind that he was starting to feel put out.

She took his hand in both of hers, her eyes wide and deep with entreaty, “Sylvie invited me to join her and Jasper and the girls at Christmas Eve mass.  You don’t mind too terribly, do you?”  Her tone made clear the answer she was hoping for from him. 

He retorted with an exasperated sigh.  Tessa rushed a soothing response, “I’ll be back straightaway, and then we’ll have the whole rest of Christmas together.”  She teased him gently, “You’ll probably be tired of all my sentimental carrying on by this time tomorrow night anyway.”

Sherlock tilted his head, a half-smile of acknowledgement and appreciation creeping across his cheek—how she’d learned so well to anticipate his reactions, how easily she navigated his weather before a storm arose.  He knew he couldn’t deny her this, though he was truly disappointed to have to spend the next few hours still alone.

“Alright, fine,” he told her irascibly, “I suppose I can find _something_ amusing to fill the hours in between.”  Tessa leaned in to give him a grateful kiss, but he held her off a moment longer, “But the only surprises I want after this are the ones wrapped and waiting under the tree.”

“Hmmmm,” she said as she kissed him, her voice grown husky, “don’t make me promise something you know very well I may not be able to deliver.” 

How could he _not_ respond in kind?  In the end, she never really left him any choice, her softness so sweet, her mouth ever ready to yield to him.  Sherlock traced the line of her jaw, holding her face and returning her kiss, to murmur after, “Are you sure you have to go?”

Tessa’s lips remained a hairsbreadth away, “Don’t tempt me, darling.  I’ve got to behave a while yet.” Even so, Sherlock wove his fingers in her hair, not willing to let her leave.

Perhaps he might have persuaded Tessa to linger still, if not for the “yoo-hooing” of Mrs. Hudson in the doorway.  She was dressed for church as well, wearing her best coat, buttoned and ready to go, looking a little excited about the outing ahead, “Shall we go now, Tessa? 

Breaking the pleasant gravity that held them rapt in one another, Tessa looked down a moment before answering her.  “Yes, I’m coming, Mrs. Hudson.”  She pressed a finger across Sherlock’s lips, and mouthed silently “Later, darling,” then rose to get her coat.

Sherlock stood with her, helping her back into her coat—his convenient excuse to loiter close a little longer.  “Come straight home then,” he admonished Tessa gently, “and then we can make a proper start of Christmas.”

Tessa bit her lip with a little smile of regret, and then followed Mrs. Hudson down the stairs.

It had only been twenty minutes since they’d left, and Sherlock was already ruing Tessa’s absence.  He was glad to see John come into the flat, ready to suggest to him that they head out for a light dinner and a holiday libation, certain it would fill the time nicely until the women returned to Baker Street.

John hesitated a bit—enough for Sherlock to read his answer in the set of his shoulders and the way he looked away before answering—“Oooo, love to but I can’t.  Stella asked me to join her at a get together with her friends—I’ve just come to change before going over.” 

“Oh.”  Sherlock expressed a world of disappointment in the one syllable.

“Isn’t Tessa coming by?” John asked, glancing about to see if she’d already arrived.

“Church.”  Sherlock countered, pursing his lips in frustration.

“Oh.  Well then…” John trailed off; he didn’t really want to offer, but felt he had to, although he doubted Sherlock would take up him up on it, “Um…you’re welcome to come along with me, if you’d like.  I won’t know anyone there besides Stella, so it would be a bit of a favor to have you there.”  He squinted at Sherlock, awaiting his reply.

Sherlock sighed, looking altogether resigned, “No, that’s fine.  I’m, uh, sure I can keep myself busy for a couple of hours.  There’s a paper on potential changes in the field of medical examination that Molly recommended; I’ve been meaning to catch up with online.”

John nodded, “Of course…” not fooled in the least and fairly certain that the only thing Sherlock might end up catching up on was pouting time.  A little sorry for his friend, John knew it was survivable, and felt it wasn’t so grave that he’d have to miss out on his own plans. He watched as Sherlock took a seat at the desk and opened up his laptop, making a point of being completely absorbed in whatever appeared upon the screen.  John headed upstairs to change.

Once ready to go, John popped his head through the door to find that Sherlock had not budged from where he sat when he’d left the room.  “Not too late to change your mind, Sherlock. Could be a case of the more, the merrier.”     

Sherlock didn’t look up, waving John off with an inaudible mumble.  No less than John had expected; he turned and left the flat.

Sherlock waited a moment, and then looked towards the doorway, vexed that John had ignored his quiet signals that he’d have preferred his company for the evening over the quiet that now filled the room.  He glanced back at the screen, and then unceremoniously closed the lid, reaching into his jacket for his phone.  He quickly dialed a number.

His call was answered after several rings.  “Yes, Sherlock, what do you need this fine Christmas Eve?”  As ever, Mycroft’s voice held a distinctive mocking tone.

Sherlock vowed to sound just as detached, “Who said I wanted anything?  I was just wondering what you were up to this evening; I know that house of yours _must_ be echoing with silence on such a festive night.”

“How brotherly of you, Sherlock, to be so concerned for my emotional welfare.”  There was a hint of amusement through Mycroft’s sarcasm, “But then _you_ must have a houseful of guests right now; I wonder you even had the opportunity to give me a passing thought.”

“Well, at the moment it’s rather quiet here, but then the evening’s still young, isn’t it?  I was only…”  Sherlock paused, as it wouldn’t do for Mycroft to think he  _needed_  company, “…speculating if perhaps you might like to stop by for a Christmas toast of sorts.  Surely even _you_  have to raise a glass or two to the season.”

Mycroft huffed, which Sherlock supposed was as close to a laugh as he was likely to get, “As exciting as your invitation sounds, I think I shall decline.  Seeing you twice over the holiday might be a bit too much for either of our likings.”

“Twice?” the younger brother repeated, now perplexed.

“Well, tomorrow of course.”  From his tone, Sherlock could tell Mycroft felt he had the upper hand.  “Your Tessa invited me over for Christmas dinner—such a pretty thing, I couldn’t stand to say no and see a look of disappointment cross her hopeful face…..or didn’t she mention it to you?”

Sherlock couldn’t recall a single statement or allusion to such an invitation.  He had to smile though, at Tessa’s quiet thoughtfulness. This certainly was an unexpected surprise, and welcome too he supposed—though he wouldn’t want to let such information on to Mycroft.  “Oh yes, I’d forgotten that.”

“Indeed.”  Sherlock could tell Mycroft was not convinced. “Well then, I’ll let you go, Sherlock, as I’m sure Baker Street is just coming to life with Christmas cheer even now.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock concluded, smoothly enough he hoped, to maintain the illusion that he wasn’t actually alone, “Until tomorrow then, Mycroft—for it  _would_  be a shame, should you disappoint Tessa.” 

His brother replied with genuine sincerity, “I shall do my utmost to avoid such a travesty.” Mycroft chuckled, and then added, “Happy Christmas, Sherlock.  And please do give that lovely young lady my best.”

“It’s as soon said as done, brother dear.  Goodnight.”

Sherlock tucked his phone back into his pocket, frustrated.  It would probably be at least two hours until Tessa and Mrs. Hudson were back, and he was feeling out of sorts.  In the past, solitude on Christmas Eve had never bothered him; once past the days of childhood fantasy, and the youthful anticpation of gifts and other satisfactions that the holiday season held, he had come to think of Christmas as just another day of the year, observed by the masses as a comforting religious myth, and by modern society as opportunity for greedy indulgence.  Tessa had changed all that for him, and he had begun to enjoy each aspect of the season, now as never before; and thus had not expected to be feeling—frankly—abandoned by those who knew him best, those who meant the most to him.  Frankly, by the woman who’d caused him to embrace the season to begin with.

Left restless by these thoughts, Sherlock grabbed his coat, intending to stop on the Marylebone Road at the fish & chips shoppe he favored.  Perhaps the fresh air would do him some good, and surely a stroll through a neighborhood or two, lit with Christmas cheer, might make the time pass more quickly.

* * *

Somehow, without even meaning to, Sherlock’s path had taken him here:  Notting Hill, Saint Mary of the Angels Church.  He certainly had not intended to  _end_  up here, not as he left the shoppe (its final customer of the day), his hot food wrapped up to be consumed along the way.  Had he been woolgathering so much that he’d moved without thinking to the place he knew her to be?  Or, he asked himself truthfully, had he intended to get here all along, knowing his heart really  _did_ long for the comfort of community the brightly lit church represented, the warmth that seemed to flow out with the strains of music coming from within?  The thought of Tessa inside, joined in prayer and song with others of her faith—was that the magnet that drew him here?  A man who stood outside of everything this building represented, yet wanted nothing more than to do as he was doing—opening the door to feel the tide of shared and simple Christmas gladness wash over him.

Sherlock allowed himself to enter the vestibule, but stopped there, feeling it was enough for now.  He knew, not just from what he could hear (and  remembering similar services he’d attended as a boy), but from the time itself, that the service was almost over.  It was quite enough to imagine her inside, singing joyfully, and most likely wishing he was there to share it with her.  He felt a sense of peace that had eluded him all day long, a sense of belonging that had for so many years been out of reach.  He thought of those who had made it posible for him to finally feel he fit in somewhere—of John and Mrs. Hudson, of Lestrade and Molly, and of his Tessa, who had worked a minor miracle of sorts; they had gotten him to this marvellous threshold, and she had managed to carry him across at last.  Sherlock felt such a swell of love for all of them, that he was grateful to be alone, fearing the light of it would shine so obviously upon his face that he might be taken, by strangers, for a fool.

He could hear the sound of the congregation rising as one for the final blessing; moments later came the resonant harmonies of the folk group, accompanied by guitars and keyboards;  _Hark the Herald Angels Sing_ , and quite a joyful noise it made at that.  The doors opened wide to knots of people chattering cheerfully as they exited, farewelling and “Merry Christmasing” to all whom they recognized. 

Sherlock stood off to the side watching them pass, his eyes focused as he searched for a sight of Tessa and Mrs. Hudson.  Knowing her, he thought, Tessa will be one of the last to leave, likely to stay until the last note of the last carol rang out.

That, in fact, was exactly what she did.  Tessa and Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway, arm in arm, following Sylvie and her family.  Sherlock remained silent, but took a few steps closer, patient for her to notice him.  She beamed at him in happy surprise, pointing him out to Mrs. Hudson, before rushing over to embrace him.  “You should have come in and joined us, Sherlock,” concern in her voice, “Have you been waiting long?”  Her cheek against his was welcome and warm, and Sherlock breathed in the light fragrance of her perfume, glad that she was his.

He kept his voice low, smiling down at her sweet reaction, “Not long at all, my dear.  I only just arrived.”  The others had stopped a few feet away, allowing the couple their privacy.  The adults looked surprised and pleased to see him there.  Tessa squeezed his hand, then pulled him along to greet them.

Pleasantries exchanged, Sherlock turned back to Tessa, “I was thinking we might take a walk before returning home. If you’re up to it. Its a near perfect December evening.”

“Sounds wonderful,” she answered, turning to Sylvie and Mrs. Hudson, “Do you mind?”

Sylvie laughed lightly, “Not at all.  Sounds too romantic to resist.”  Tessa looked down, bashful at how obvious she must have looked, and Sylvie added, “We can see Mrs. Hudson gets home safely.”

Mrs. Hudson, looking on indulgently, told them “No problem at all, dear.  You two take your time.”  She winked at Sherlock, “You keep her warm now, Sherlock.  Keep her close.”

He nodded, his gaze locked upon Tessa, his response more for her ears than anyone’s there, “I have no intention of anything  _other_  than that.”

* * *

Within a few blocks, it had begun to snow lightly, flakes huge enough to make out the unique crystal patterns of each, falling softly and muffling the sounds of the world around them.  It made them feel as though they traveled the night alone.  Tessa tightened her hold upon his arm, grateful for this peaceful, quiet time at Sherlock’s side.

“You know,” she sighed, “this has  _always_  been my favorite night of the year.”

That did not surprise him, but he went on to indulge her, asking why.  Tessa paused to think, as they came to a corner and waited for the light to change so they could cross the street.  The snowflakes alighting upon her dark hair gave the appearance of a lacy bridal veil, and he felt a tender sort of satsifaction seeing her so.  “What?” she asked, puzzled but smiling as a warm expression spread across his features.

“Nothing,” he answered, happy to keep the lovely observation to himself, “You were saying what made Christmas Eve your favorite.”

She shook her head, puzzled by his enigmatic response, before continuing, “As a child, you feel it as the most thrilling anticipation.  What will Santa bring for me?”  The light finally flashed for them to cross, and Sherlock led her forward. “Even as a teen, you’re mostly thinking about what gifts you’ll get.  But eventually you understand,” Tessa pressed closer at his side, her voice sincere and holding his attention, “eventually you get it.”

Sherlock thought he knew where she was leading, although there might be any number of answers.  “Tell me, my dear.”

She gave a sigh of satisfaction before answering, “How much better it feels to give than to get.  How wonderful you feel when you’ve brought happiness to someone.  The ones you  _love_ ,” she stressed that last for his sake, “and the ones in need of kindness.”

That’s me, he thought, on both accounts, as he silently tallied all the wonderful ways she’d given to him in their time together.  “That’s a lesson doesn’t need Christmas to learn, Tessa.”  Sherlock stopped, wanting to face her as he told her, “You’ve shown me that so many times already.”

She lowered her eyes a moment, shy at his honest flattery, and then looked up at him, “But that’s exactly what Christmas is.  If you believe, like  _I_ do,” Tessa’s voice was as hopeful as her spirit, “than you recognize this night as the night of the most profound loving and giving ever.”  She blinked and a few sentimental tears graced her cheeks.

Another Sherlock might have given a dry, clinical answer to her assertions; would have been eager to dispell the myths—pointing out that Christ the historical figure was likely born in the spring and certainly wasn’t visited within days of his birth by scientist-philosophers bearing gifts.  But he had changed in the several months since they had met, and even if he couldn’t entirely agree with her beliefs, he valued her quiet, enduring faith and the view of the world it created in her.  Instead, he leaned in to brush his lips softly upon her cheek.  “Tessa, come home with me now.  That’s all the gift of Christmas I’ll ever need.”

Agreeing easily, Tessa bit her lip, her love for him writ clear on her features, and Sherlock waved down the next passing cab, as the snow continued to colour the streets fresh and white.

* * *

Tessa stole from his bed Christmas morning, truly excited about the day ahead, and doing her best not to wake him prematurely.  She borrowed Sherlock’s tartan dressing gown—always her favorite—to head downstairs and join Mrs. Hudson with the brunch preparations.

Mrs. Hudson hugged her tightly, “Merry Christmas, dear.”  Tessa wished her the same, then poured herself  glass of fresh squeezed orange juice from the pitcher set upon the table.  The older woman was animated with excitement, asking eagerly, “Are the Boys up yet?”

Tessa shook her head, “Sound asleep, as far as I could tell.”  She began to collect what she needed from the cupboard and refrigerator; they had decided it would be Tessa’s French toast today, as Sherlock had a preference for them.  The women had an easy rhythm as they worked, anticipating what the other needed, moving out of one another’s way before being asked, and chatting quietly between bouts of more concentrated effort. 

At last, Mrs. Hudson was arranging muffins on a platter, one of the finishing touches for the morning feast, and then carried them to the small table in little her dining room; rarely seeing use, it would be central to both meals today.  “I heard Sherlock playing last night,” she mentioned as she reentered the kitchen. “It sounded just lovely.”

Tessa straightened up, having finished loading the dishwasher, wiping her hands on a dish towel, and looking wistful, “Yes.  I had a private concert of sorts—one of Sherlock’s gifts for me.”  Her contented smile alone told the tale of what it meant to her.  Sherlock had chosen carols he knew would please her; he had figured there would be plenty of requests for Christmas music from their guests the next day, and he had wanted to give her those particular songs in the quiet of the hour when Christmas Eve turned into Christmas Day.   _Ave Maria_ ,  _O Holy Night_ , and of course, her favorite,  _Silent Night_.  He had moved her to happy tears, making Tessa look forward even more to the surprises she had for him—for he had unwittingly chosen something of a theme quite similar to what she had in store.

Mrs. Hudson was adding the finishing touches to their table, so Tessa moved upstairs to get properly dressed, and let Sherlock and John know everything was ready.  Sherlock was finishing a cup of coffee in the kitchen; as she passed on her way to his room to change, he caught her under the mistletoe.  “Merry Christmas, my dear.” he told her, before kissing her thoroughly, “Missed you this morning.”

“The merriest ever, Darling” she replied before kissing him back, “Brunch is ready.  Is John up yet?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, “Yes, he was frantically texting that girlfriend of his this morning.  I think he went up to change as well.”

“Good for him,” Tessa exclaimed, as John entered the room.

“Merry Christmas, Tessa.”  He joined the two under the mistletoe, giving her a peck on the cheek.  “What’s good for me?”

Tessa answered with a little chuckle, “Stella.  Will she be joining us for dinner?”

“She’s hoping to get away from the family luncheon to make it over on time, so yes, hopefully.”  He gave Sherlock a pointed look, joking, “And no ‘bah humbugging’ from you, Mr. Scrooge.”

Sherlock’s response was a very dry, “I wouldn’t even dream of it, John.”

* * *

They returned to the upstairs flat pleasantly satiated, joined by Mrs. Hudson for the giving of gifts.  Tessa and John were ready with mobiles to capture the joy, although Sherlock would have preferred not to memorialize the process; at Tessa’s insistence, his objection was duly ignored.

Sherlock opened the first package, from Tessa—the gloves he had told her he wanted weeks ago.  She hoped that would set him off track toward figuring out the others gifts in store.

Having spent enough time in their company, Tessa was especially proud of her selections for John and Mrs. Hudson.  She had noticed that Mrs. Hudson’s china service had suffered some losses over the years—three cups broken or chipped, and four saucers missing as well.  When she’d inquired about it, Mrs. Hudson had told her sadly that the service was no longer in production, but a little research (worthy of Sherlock himself) helped Tessa locate replacements, with a couple extra of each in addition.  The older woman was ecstatic over the present.  Her gifts to Tessa:  a pair of opal earrings and a baby pink cashmere sweater, which Tessa, both of which she simply adored.

John might have been a tricky case, but Tessa had discovered his nostalgic side, and so gifted him with a dvd collection of British sitcoms from his youth.  John was delighted, for it was truly something he’d never think to buy himself.  The two shared a knowing look and bit of laughter when she opened his gifts to her—a bottle of the very same perfume that had alerted him that past June that Sherlock had, extraordinarily, a woman in his life, accompanied by a beautiful set of filigreed combs, set with pale pink stones.

Sherlock then plucked a rectangular box wrapped in gold foil and a small red bow, from within the branches of the Christmas tree.  It took Tessa by surprise, as she hadn’t noticed it in all the times she’d had reason to look at the tree.  He watched intently as she opened it.  Tessa was fairly certain it had to contain a piece of jewelry.  The box itself was black velvet, and her hands shook a little with exhilaration as she lifted the hinged lid to reveal a strand of pearls, fine pearls of exceptional luminescence, with just a kiss of palest pink about them.  Tessa was speechless as she lifted them from the box, with Sherlock looking on triumphant at how he’d managed to surprise her.

She had to catch her breath before she could speak, finally managing, “But Sherlock…Darling…this is far too extravagant!"

He had known she would respond just so. "Nonsense," he replied, "I shopped wisely, and called upon a connection or two, so they didn’t set me too far back.  There are certain tenets our mother lives by, maxims which she made sure my brother and I understood as essential to being a gentleman, no matter what the setting.  Paramount among them being that  _every_  woman deserves a good set of pearls.”  He took the strand from her hand and undid the clasp, motioning for her to allow him to place them around her neck, telling her in his sagest tone, “To refuse them now would be to refute her wisdom—and I’m  _certain_  you wouldn’t want me to do that.”

Thus conveniently given no choice, Tessa conceded, lifting the hair from her neck so he could settle them upon her skin. They stood a moment more, taking one another’s measure, until she smiled and rose up so that her lips were level with his.  

Her kiss was long and deep, the very sort she usually reserved for their most private moments.  Despite the fact that they were not alone, Sherlock felt himself respond in kind, heedless of decorum for a time, allowing himself to be fully vested in the message she was sending.  They only came apart at the sound of John’s hearty wolf-whistle.  

Even then, Tessa remained pressed against him, one hand on his shoulder, the other in his hair, as was her favorite wont.

She spoke not a word, but the arch of her brow and the play of her sly smile told him all he needed to know—this was no mere gratitude, this was the promise of things to come.  Sherlock had no doubt as to what these small signs meant—nor later in the day, the several times she caught his eye across the room, across the dinner table even, as she let her gaze linger before looking away in faux bashfulness.  He felt without a doubt, that when Tessa came to bed that night, she would be wearing the pearls still.  The pearls and nothing more—unless it was a blush of anticipation for what they would soon share.

The last gift of the morning was Tessa’s to give, a modestly sized box, which she handed on to Sherlock.  Inside he found several items, all of the very best quality, for she had done her homework.  A set of Evah Parazzi Gold Violin Strings.  A round cake of rosin nestled in a fine wood case.  Violin polish and an Glaesel Orchestral polishing cloth.  And that which would be his favorite—a leather portfolio, embossed with a treble clef, his initials in the bottom corner in gold leaf.  She had seen to it that it was filled with the finest staff-lined parchment paper, as old-fashioned as any composer might treasure. 

She waited, bright-eyed, as Sherlock held each item in hand, until she simply  _had_  to ask him if she’d managed to surprise him.  His smile reached from ear to ear, the biggest of the day so far, as he told her, “Truthfully, I expected something of a musical nature, but nothing as glorious as this.”  Tessa batted her eyes prettily, her hand stealing to caress the pearls around her neck.  There was still one secret left, but she planned to wait until later to bestow that gift.

* * *

Their dinner guests began to arrive in the late afternoon.  It had started to snow again, making for the prettiest of pictures outside the windows, especially when viewed from the warm glow of the hearth and amber lighting of the front room.  Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper arrived together, bearing gifts which promptly found their places beneath the tree.  Molly quickly checked with Mrs. Hudson and Tessa to see if a hand was needed in the kitchen, but everything was moving along on their well-planned schedule, leaving them free for the time, to indulge in drinks and appetizers.  Stella arrived shortly after, finding her place near John for introductions all around.

Then there was Mycroft, the last to arrive--in his usual dramatic style--sweeping into the room with a swirl of his snow covered coat, carrying a valise of sorts, filled with a selection of fine wines.  He also presented the two hostesses with small gift boxes, surely in keeping with the good manners mother Holmes had fostered in both of her sons.

Dinner was served buffet style, as there wasn’t room enough in either flat to seat everyone.  Jenna showed up halfway through, full of cheer and apologizing for her tardiness.  Tessa was delighted to pull her aside and show off her pearls, which Jenna eyed with an appraising eye and gave the highest of approvals.  Tessa’s friend flirted shamelessly with Lestrade, and even tested her wiles upon Mycroft, which Sherlock found to be especially amusing.

Between the opening of the remaining gifts and the bountiful dessert table, music was called for, just as Sherlock had expected.  The room was comfortable with good will, fueled mostly by the day and partly by the drink and good company, augmented by the glad carols Sherlock played.  Mrs. Hudson told John and Sherlock that it had been the grandest Christmas she’d seen on Baker Street in many years.

Through it all—through the laughter and comraderie, the music and the making merry—Tessa returned when she could to Sherlock’s side.  As wonderful as the flat full of happy people made her, she looked forward to after the party, for the final gift she had planned for Sherlock.

By 10pm, the guests had trickled away, some for home and others—like Jenna—for other parties to attend.  John had gone as well, to see Stella home.  Before Mycroft departed, he pulled Tessa aside to thank her for including him in the evening, and she gave him the warmest and most unexpected sisterly sort of hug.  He observed to Sherlock, the next time they spoke, that her charm was undeniable and how rare a find she was, with the unlikely talent of getting past both of their staid social defenses.

Mrs. Hudson was exhausted by the end of the evening, bidding the remaining couple goodnight, and swearing she was likely to sleep round the clock.  “But it’s been well worth it!” she told Tessa, hugging her before going downstairs.

Alone at last, Tessa could barely contain the desire to rush and bring out her final gift for Sherlock.  She excused herself, on excuse to use the loo, but instead went to get the package—hidden beneath Sherlock’s bed the whole day through, as it’s distinctive shape would have given the surprise away.  She hurried back into the front room with it, to find him seated and waiting for her, a wrapped box sitting on the coffee table before him—another gift, it appeared, for her.

She laughed out loud at the realization; each had held back one thing, to be given in private, that last bit of Christmas, each wanting to carry off that last dramatic, defining note of yuletide giving. 

 Sherlock patted the cushion beside him, beckoning her to sit, and telling her “Ladies first,” meaning for her to make her presentation first.  Tessa ceded to him the honor of giving the last gift, and handed the large, flat package over to him, holding her breath in anticipation of his response.  He didn’t disappoint her.

“My god, Tessa,” he exclaimed, truly surprised—to her heart’s joy—“This is the most remarkable gift.”  He held the frame in wonder, staring at what lay beneath the glass.  Tessa leaned close and kissed his cheek, knowing he wasn’t entirely paying her mind at the moment, but oh so happy to have pleased him so. 

“Merry Christmas, my love,” she whispered, savoring the feel of his skin beneath her lips.  She rested her cheek against his as she turned to view the frame as well.

Beneath the glass was a sheet of paper, bearing a portion of Mozart’s  _Violin Concerto in G Major_ \--the first piece he had ever played for her.  She had commissioned a calligrapher to painstaking copy the work from scans of Mozart’s original composition, so that the work matched his writing very closely.  Even the music staves were handrendered.  Tessa allowed him to gaze in awe moments more, before telling him softly, “Now look at the back, Sherlock.”

He turned to face her, wonder still clear on his face, then looked down at the frame as he turned it over.  Tessa had written indelibly upon the brown backing paper:

_My Darling Sherlock,_

_These notes have been engraved upon my heart from the moment you played them for me.  Just as my love for you is engraved upon my Soul._

_All my Love, today & every day to follow,_

_Tessa_

Beside her name, she had sealed the missive with a kiss, in her distinctive shade of dark pink lipstick.

Tessa watched while Sherlock looked down, closing his eyes.  His nostrils flared as he took a very deep breath, as though he was trying to control an unruly impulse.  The corners of his mouth moved slowly into a smile, until he turned to her at last.  He had no words, but from depth of his eyes, she understood exactly what he felt, and so no words were needed.

After a little, Sherlock cleared his throat, regaining his usual demeanor, and handing to her his final gift of the season.  Tessa handled the package gently, feeling its weight and the weight of his eyes upon her.  Once unwrapped, she opened the plain white box to find a well-worn, leather-bound book.  There was no writing on the cover, so she had to open it to the title page to discover what it was; the paper was strong stuff, not too fragile with age, so the book must’ve been well cared for.  The title showed it to be  _The Complete Collection of Shakespeare’s Sonnets_ , and Tessa soon realized this was a copy dating back to the 19th century.  She turned the page, looking for an inscription.

Sure enough, there was faint writing at the top of the page, and the date read  _Christmas, 1861_.  A long dead hand had written here:

_To:  SB_

_Never doubt I love thee.  You own my heart forever._

_From:  MD_

“SB?” she murmured, searching for a name to fit the initials.

“Sarah Bernhardt,” he told her quietly.  “MD was Maximillian Dunham, a very ardent suitor.”

“This… _this_ …belonged to Sarah Bernhardt?”  Tessa was completely stunned.  Sarah Bernhardt—the premiere American actress of her time, lauded on both sides of the Atlantic as the finest actress of her generation.  Sarah Bernhardt of the famed beauty and talent.  “This belonged to  _her_?” she marveled, “I’m holding something in my hands that belonged to her?”

“Yes, my dear, you are indeed.”  Tessa could hear the pleased smile in his voice, “Given to her by a man who apparently adored her utterly.”  The beautiful implications of his gift left Tessa feeling dizzy.

But there was more.  Sherlock reached to turn the next page so she could see the inscription he had added:

_My Dearest Tessa-_

_When my words fail to express my depth of feeling for you, please let these speak in my stead.  Merry Christmas._

_Yours always,_

_Sherlock_

Tessa remained incredulous, “Oh Sherlock!  However did you manage this?”  She was overwhelmed with wonder, tears prickling her eyes as she waited upon his answer.

“My dear, my sweet,” Sherlock stroked her face, tracing the fine line of her cheekbone with his thumb, seeing the tears were close again, knowing he’d be happy to kiss them away when they came, “my Tessa.   _That’s_  a story for another day.” She smiled brightly and he continued, drolly “Besides which, you know my methods enough to know I can’t reveal  _all_  my secrets.”

Tessa sighed and nodded, knowing—as always—how right he was. 

The snow had lightened, but continued to fall outside the windows of their warm little sanctuary.  Christmas was winding to a close, and though Tessa would have liked to suspend time a bit, so as the relish it longer, she was satisfied knowing that whatever lay ahead, this Christmas would live in her memories as the best she’d ever known.  As she leaned back into Sherlock’s arms, she was certain the dear man beside her would say the very same.     

 


End file.
